When You Call Me

from somewhere in our long, still house,
I can tell by the hush in your voice
that you aren't calling for help,
don't need a hand lifting a heavy chest
or opening a stubborn jar, because
it's the same voice you used to use
while you watched our babies
sleeping in their cribs
or when we walk in Severson Dells
searching the earth for wildflowers.
I know when I find you,
you'll reach for my hand.
Last March, I remember,
it was the first appearance
of our own long-surviving chipmunk,
who wrapped your voice in dew.
Today you've spotted a fawn
who's fallen asleep in the garden.
All three of us breathe in unison.